the dying of the light
by Ruadhnait
Summary: The Nirnaeth Arnoediad was bad enough in itself, but the aftermath is even worse. In which the sons of Fëanor deal with the consequences of catastrophic failure and the realization that they're left with nothing but each other. Rated for nasty wounds and Fëanorians cussing.


They're fifty miles from Anfauglith, maybe, when Curufin slips sideways and tumbles off his horse. Maedhros sees it happen in his peripheral vision. He has barely a glimpse of his brother, suddenly stark white, grasping vainly at his stallion's mane before the beast rears, whinnying in panic as his rider hits the ground. Maedhros' instincts react before his mind does, and he throws his left hand up in the air, yelling "Halt!" before he's fully realized what's happened. The warrior just behind Curufin yanks hard on the reins, cursing, and his horse skids to a stop within seconds in a spray of gravel and dust. Someone is shouting in panic, but Maedhros barely hears him. He's already leapt off his horse and is running like mad to the place where Curufin lies sprawled in the dirt. _Goddamn_, he thinks frantically, curling his right arm around Curufin's shoulders, heaving him into a sitting position, thanking whatever gods there were that they'd been riding so far ahead of everyone else, attempting to drag his brother out of the way of the ranks of horsemen nevertheless thundering up behind them, coming ever closer. _I can't do it_, he realizes suddenly, cursing the useless stump where his right hand used to be. "Somebody help me!" he roars. Two of Curufin's bannermen are already sprinting towards him. When they reach him, they each take one of Curufin's arms and manage to half carry, half drag him some thirty feet to a pile of boulders, out of the way of the oncoming host. They lay him on the grass at a nod from Maedhros. "Edhelhir," he says, managing to remember one of their hames. "Both of you go catch our horses. And bring Lord Maglor back with you." They're gone in an instant, running back towards where Maedhros can hear the rest of the host coming to a halt, horses neighing, and the clatter of hooves, someone yelling orders, frantic shouts. Maedhros drops to his knees and bends over Curufin, who's still unconscious. _No_, he thinks, feeling panic rising in his throat, bitter like bile. Curufin's face has a deathlike pallor and his dark hair is damp with sweat; his eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible. When Maedhros lays a hand on his forehead, it's burning hot. "No," Maedhros breathes. He slaps Curufin, hard. No response. "Come on," Maedhros begs, seizing his shoulders and shaking him, "wake up, please, _please_." Curufin's head lolls back, limply, his eyes still closed.

Maedhros hears running footsteps coming up behind him. Celegorm pants to a halt and squats beside Maedhros. "What the hell happened?" he demands.

"Fell off his horse," Maedhros answers tersely.

"_What_?" Celegorm's voice rises incredulously.

"He's sick," Maedhros says. "He's burning up. Tyelko, why didn't you tell me he was hurt?"

"What?" Curufin looks bewildered. "He's not - oh, shit," he says under his breath. He swears again, louder, and his face reddens angrily.

"He didn't tell you," Maedhros says slowly. "Did he?" He glances at Celegorm.

"He didn't tell anyone," Celegorm says bitterly. "_Eru_," he says explosively, "how could I have been so stupid?"

"Never mind that now," Maedhros says swiftly. "We've got to find where he's wounded so we can draw the poison out."

"Poison?" Celegorm's already yanking one of Curufin's boots off, looking for an arrow wound that might be easily concealed.

"Only thing it _can_ be," Maedhros says grimly,"for him to fall ill so fast." Just at that moment, Maglor comes over, followed closely by Caranthir, Amras, and Edhelhir, as well as a number of Curufin's bannermen and their warriors.

"What's going on?" Maglor looks pale and worried. "Edhelhir said Kurvo fell off his horse-"

"Kano, he's wounded," Maedhros says. "He didn't tell anyone."

He doesn't have to say anything else . Maglor's already kneeling in the grass, feeling Curufin's forehead, pressing two fingers to his throat, checking his pulse. He places his hand briefly behind Curufin's left knee, and Curufin shudders with pain, his eyelids fluttering. Maglor goes even whiter. "That's the spot," he says quietly. "Help me roll him onto his side." Maedhros hastens to assist him, but Celegorm is already there, lifting Curufin's left shoulder up and pushing him onto his side, holding him steady with hands gentle but strong. Amras, just beside Maglor, hands him his dagger, and Maglor quickly cuts away the wool of Curufin's hose, exposing the wound.

Maedhros sucks in his breath, feeling a sickening jolt of horror. The arrowhead is buried deep in Curufin's flesh, the shaft splintered and broken off. Though there's little bleeding, the skin around the wound is swollen and blackened. Maedhros sees Maglor bite his lip, hard enough to draw blood.

"If we take the arrowhead out … " Celegorm voices their unspoken fears. He looks severely shaken. "He'll die, won't he?"

"What are we going to do?" Caranthir took a glancing sword blow to the skull during the fighting, and now his hair is crusted with dried blood, the bandage tied hastily around his heads soaked through with dark red. His voice is harsh, too loud.

"We can't stay here," Maedhros says. "We have to get moving again, or we'll lose our head start on the Orcs."

"You aren't suggesting we leave him, are you?" Caranthir says, and Maedhros winces.

"No," he says heatedly. "No, of course not!"

"So, then, what are you going to do?" Caranthir says, his voice rising rapidly. "What's your plan, Nelyo, don't you _always_ have a plan-"

Maedhros feels blood rush into his face, and he bites back a cutting retort. _Don't retaliate_, he reminds himself for the thousandth time. _Ignore him_.

"He's not going to die," Maglor says brusquely, glaring at Caranthir.

Celegorm's head jerks around. He stares at Maglor. "But I thought-"

"Kurvo got lucky," Maglor says quietly. "He got very, very lucky. The bolt just missed his femoral artery. If it had pierced it, we'd have a choice between leaving it in and letting gangrene kill him within days, or taking it out and watching him bleed to death in minutes."

"So can we take it out?" Amras asks fearfully. His eyes are huge. He looks like the littlest brother that Maedhros used to know in another life, not like the taciturn, withdrawn hunter and warrior that Beleriand has made of him.

Maglor bites his lip again. "We can," he says. "Pityo, can you get me a cloth? And water?" Amras nods and gets up. He runs over to where his horse is tethered and begins rummaging in the saddlebags.

"But should we?" Celegorm is still very pale. "If something goes wrong-" He breaks off abruptly, and Maedhros notices for the first time that he's gripping Curufin's shoulder tightly.

"If we put it off, the wound will only get infected." Maglor shakes his head.

Amras returns with two strips of cloth and his leather waterskin; Maglor takes them from him in silence. He uncorks the waterskin and pours a thin stream of water over the cloth. Once it's soaked through, he knots it firmly around the two inches or so of the shaft that sprouts from Curufin's leg.

Maedhros takes a deep breath and clenches his left hand tightly, feeling his nails digging painfully into his palm, hoping for Curufin's sake that it will be over quickly.

Maglor's face is empty of all expression, his hands steady, as he grips the shaft of the arrow and drives it down through Curufin's flesh, until the arrowhead juts out just above Curufin's knee. Swiftly, he grasps the arrowhead and pulls once. It tears free in a spray of blood and bits of flesh, and Curufin screams, the sound almost inhuman. Maglor moves quickly, wrapping the bandage around Curufin's leg, just above the wound, staunching the flow of blood. He knots the ends tightly together, jerking roughly on the cloth. Blood soaks his tunic and hose and begins to drip onto the ground, bright red drops as big as coins spattering wetly in the dust. Just as Maglor sits back on his heels and wipes his hands on his tunic, Curufin groans, and his eyes flutter open.

Maedhros' heart leaps. Caranthir draws back, visibly startled, and Celegorm says urgently, "Kurvo? Are you all right?"

Curufin's breath comes in short, shallow gasps. His teeth are clenched tightly, and his face is grey with sweat. "Bloody - _fools -_" Maedhros hears him hiss, though even those words obviously causes him pain. He struggles to sit up, but Maglor pushes him back down.

"No, you don't," he says firmly. "Lie still."

Caranthir's freckles stand out vividly in his suddenly milk-white face. "Kurvo, how in the hell-"

Curufin's eyes are bloodshot. He looks ghastly. "My sword," he mutters, groping at his belt, "where's my sword-"

"Back with your horse," Maedhros says. "You fell off. I think you're still a little confused."

"I did what?" Curufin raises his head, clearly with some effort, and twists around to look incredulously at him.

Maedhros sighs. "How much do you remember?"

Curufin's forehead crinkles in concentration. "I don't remember falling," he says slowly, "but-"

Maedhros interrupts him. "In the future," he says shortly, "perhaps you'd care to mention it in passing when you get an arrow in the leg?"

Curufin lets his head fall back to the ground with a dull thud. "I thought I was going to die," he mumbles. "So I didn't want my men to see - didn't want them to-" his voice is almost inaudible, "lose heart …"

It's these words, more than anything, that let Maedhros know just how ill Curufin is. Never, when in his right mind, would he have _ever_ considered revealing anything like that … From the stunned looks on his brothers' faces, Maedhros can tell that they are all thinking the same thing.

"You're fucking lucky, too," Maglor says, his voice low and fierce. "If you'd broken off an inch more of that shaft, I wouldn't have been able to get it out of you." What's left of the arrow is a good six and a half inches; the wood is soaked through with dark red. Curufin doesn't answer him.

Maedhros breaks the silence. "Kurvo, I'm sorry, but we have to keep going," he says. "Can you ride?"

Curufin struggles free from Celegorm's grasp and sits up, wincing. "Yes," he says.

Caranthir snorts derisively. "Yeah," he mutters, looking away from them, "yeah, sure."

"I don't have any other choice, do I?" Curufin looks a little defiant.

"No, you don't," Maedhros says heavily. "Let's go, then." Amras rises silently and walks back to where the horses are tethered; Caranthir follows him. Maedhros can see the rest of his host assembling, mounting their horses. The sound of whinnying horses, stamping hooves, Caranthir shouting something indistinct to his riders overwhelms Maedhros for a moment, and he closes his eyes, thinking about riding out to battle that morning in the clear dawn to the sound of trumpets … _Don't think about that_, he has to tell himself fiercely. _Don't even go there. Don't let yourself._ Years and years of nightmares have taught him to do this. He's learned to keep all the horror and all the memories locked away somewhere dark and hidden and to throw away the key. It's the only way to keep himself sane. He knows this now more than ever, because the nightmares have started walking in the daylight and no matter whether he's awake or sleeping, they always find him.

He pushes these thoughts away with an almost physical effort, and opens his eyes again. Maglor is standing next to him, looking concerned. "Nelyo, are you-"

"I'm fine," Maedhros says firmly. "Fine. Káno, if I sent a rider to Dor-Lómin, how long do you think it would take him to reach Findekáno?"

"He'd never make it through Nan Dungortheb," Maglor says. "Much less Ered Wethrin. You'd be asking suicide of even the best of your men."

He'd been afraid Maglor would say that, even though he knows it's true. "I need to get word to Findekáno," he says distractedly, as he grips his horse's mane and swings himself up. "I need him to know that we're all right. If he can take his people into the mountains, they might escape the Orcs … " he trails off, only half-aware of what he's saying. Maglor doesn't anwer. Doesn't look at him.

Celegorm and Curufin are some distance away, apparently arguing, although Maedhros can't make out what they're saying. Curufin has somehow managed to stand, and although each step is clearly causing him excruciating pain, he's limping slowly towards his horse, rebuffing Celegorm's frequent attempts to help him. As the two draw closer, Maedhros hears Curufin almost snarl, "Leave me alone, Tyelko. I don't need your help."

Celegorm looks disconcerted, but he stands back and lets Curufin mounts his horse unaided. Maedhros doesn't miss the brief spasm of pain that contorts Curufin's face when he puts his weight on his injured leg, or the way he clings tightly to his horse's mane when he straightens in the saddle, or the way he's breathing hard, or the vein standing out in his forehead. All of a sudden, Maedhros goes cold with fear, as though it's only just hit him that Curufin might well die. _I can't let him die_, he thinks. _I can't_.

Beside him, Maglor shakes his head. "He's crazy," he says.

Maedhros turns to look at him. "What?"

"Kurvo." Maglor nods in his direction. "I just took an arrow out of him and he's _riding_."

"What else is he supposed to do?" Maedhros says.

Maglor's not listening. "The wound shouldn't get infected," he murmurs, "but I don't know, I just don't _know_, damn it."

"He can rest at Himring," Maedhros says, more to reassure himself than anything else. "The wound'll heal."

"I hope," Maglor says.

Maedhros swallows hard, then makes himself turn away from Curufin, but the fear stays, a great, hollow emptiness spreading inside him. His herald has ridden up beside him, and Maedhros says automatically, not looking at him, "Sound the signal to advance." Obediently, the young man raises his great gilt-bound horn to his lips and blows two notes, one high, one low, and the host begins to move, slowly at first, the horses whickering and tossing their heads, spurs jangling, and then more quickly as Maedhros kicks his stallion into a trot and the rest follow suit. Soon, they're galloping flat out, not even attempting to keep ranks. The sound of hundreds of iron-shod hooves on the stony ground hammers into Maedhros' skull, and the dust billowing from the dry, crumbling soil beneath the dead, withered grass of midsummer is thick and choking. He leans forward slightly, urging his horse onward, feeling the wind whipping his hair around his face. The land sweeps past him, the monotony of the endless swaths of brown grass broken only by the misshapen clumps of lichen-covered boulders that dot the horizon. They have kept close to the mountains all afternoon, and if Maedhros looks to his left he can see their sheer bulk rising to dizzy heights above the plains, sharp and stark in the hot, bright sun. Maedhros has never liked these mountains; today, they remind him more than ever of Ered Wethrin, and another day a hundred, a thousand years ago, another retreat, another _rout_. Maedhros remembers everything, having his first horse shot out from under him, the stink of blood and rotting flesh, the carrion birds circling, circling overhead. His father's last words, the dying breath that seemed torn out of him, taken rather than willingly given, his face still in death for only the briefest of moments before it began to crack and crumble, the tattered rags of flesh sloughing away to expose to stark white bones of his jaw and cheek, hair crumbling to fine powder and rising into the air on the first gusts of the howling gale that came up out of the West that night, the last of Fëanor's flesh and even his bones falling to ash as though devoured by some invisible fire and blowing away, caught on the relentless wind. Maedhros remembers kneeling on the cold, hard ground, too drained and empty to weep, dust-dry of tears as the wasteland surrounding them, parched as the pitted and pockmarked rock of those cruel mountains of death in whose shadow his father had died. The nightmares will never let him forget any of it.

Maedhros has no more tears now than he did then, and still he drives his people onward. Lothlann stretches for nearly two hundred miles; already his men are exhausted, battered and sore from battle, their horses on the brink of collapsing, but there's no relief for them here, no trees to offer them shade, no rivers for their horses to drink from, and if they let up now, the Orcs will be upon them. _Himring_, Maedhros mutters to himself, _if only we can make it to Himring, we'll be safe … We can regroup there, fortify the hill. They've never taken Himring, and they're not going to now …_

Himring. He can almost see it now, shimmering on the horizon like a mirage, the broad, stocky towers of worn and weathered stone, the crenellated walls, the great oaken gates barred with iron, the black flag emblazoned with the eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanor in white fluttering five hundred feet above the plain, the tallest tower where Maedhros would stand in the morning and watch the dark sky lighten to pale gold above the brooding shadow of Ered Luin three hundred miles to the east.

Maedhros' brothers had always disliked Himring. Whenever they visited, which wasn't often, they complained of the fortress' grimness, its draftiness, the clamminess of the stone walls and floors that were more often than not bare of comfortable rugs or tapestries, the tiny, slitted windows that refused to let in more than the narrowest slanting rays of light. He could hardly blame them, either. At first, he'd hated the ancient stone structure built by the Sindar who knew how many thousands of years ago; he'd hated the barrenness of the flat and treeless hill and the empty grasslands that stretched northward before it. Most of all, he'd hated the perpetual cold, the bitter winds that seemed to come straight from the teeth of Angband and chilled every corner of the castle, no matter how many roaring fires he built in the hearths in an attempt to keep himself warm. Spring meant torrential rains and, worse, mudslides. Summer brought dry, baking heat during the day from the relentless sun, but the nights were as frigid as ever. In autumn and winter, they braved the knifing cold and the snow that blanketed the hill and the castle in thick, smothering white. The northern marches were a hard, cruel land, but Maedhros had agreed to take them, when he and his brothers first came east. He'd had the watch, so to speak; if Morgoth ever moved, he'd be the first to know. He'd accepted the responsibility willingly, knowing just how important Himring was; if Morgoth moved his armies across Lothlann, only Himring and Rerir to the east, Maglor's dominion, would stand in the way of them sweeping through the gap in the hills to ravage the lands in the south. There were three of these gaps in the Noldor's line of defense; the valley between Ered Wethrin and the mountains of Dorthonion, to the west; the pass of Aglon, which Celegorm and Curufin had held, and which had fallen to the Orcs in the Dagor Bragollach; and the gap between Rerir and Himring. Maedhros' was by far the widest. Theoretically, it should have been the easiest to take, which was why he'd always made sure it was the most heavily fortified. For the most part, Maedhros had held his own; Aglon had been breached, and Rerir had fallen before being re-taken, but Himring had never, ever surrendered to the Orcs. He wasn't letting that happen now, either. _Himring must stand_, Maedhros told himself fiercely. _It must_.

He'd grown used to Himring's unforgiving climate before long. Thangorodrim had hardened him to the wind and cold, and he began to even like the north's harsh weather; often he found himself taking long solitary rides in the afternoon. Even as dusk turned into night as he returned, the wind didn't seem to bite quite as deeply as it had, and the damp chill didn't settle in his bones as before. It was more than the weather, though. It might have taken years, but Himring had become his home. He'd claimed it, built it back up from the crumbling ruin it'd been when he'd found it, defended it from the Orcs so many times, held it even during the Dagor Bragollach, when both Aglon and Rerir fell … Despite all its faults, he'd grown to love it.

_If we can just get there, we'll be safe_. He has to remind himself of this when his horse stumbles and nearly falls, and when he realizes that his waterskin is empty and dry, and when the exhaustion and thirst begin to set it several hours later and his mouth and throat feel like cottonwool, his head aches dully, and the distant horizon seems to shimmer and waver in the burning late-afternoon heat. _We have to get to Himring._

When the sun begins to sink behind the mountains and the shadows are lengthening, Maglor rides up beside Maedhros. He looks worn out; there are dark circles under his eyes and his face is streaked with dirt and blood. His horse's sides are lathered with sweat; its head hangs low. "Nelyo," he says. "How much longer are we going today?"

Maedhros glances over at him. "We're riding through the night," he says quietly.

Maglor's head jerks up. He stares at Maedhros in shock. "No," he says immediately. "No, you can't do that. Nelyo, my men are exhausted. They've been riding all day. You can't-"

Maedhros cuts him off. "I know, Káno. I _know_. But we _have _to keep going. We've lost enough time as it is. If we stop for very long-"

"If their horses start collapsing from exhaustion, we'll be slowed down considerably more," Maglor says bluntly. "And think of the Naugrim. Your men will obey you, but the Dwarves are a little less obliging."

"They can handle it," Maedhros says, casting a glance over his shoulder at the reddening sky. He can see the sharp black silhouettes of a few swifts darting and wheeling far above, their faint cries carried on the wind coming from the West.

"Maybe, but they won't be happy about it if they think you're mistreating them." Maglor shakes his head. "And if they decide that they won't follow you? They saw what happened today. You can't possibly think you still have all their trust. If they leave us, we'll lose, what, a third of our strength. We can't afford that. Face it, Nelyo, we _need_ their friendship."

Maedhros bites his lip. "When night falls, the Orcs will only get bolder. They'll travel faster, too." He sighs. "I don't like this, but I suppose you're right. Tell your men they have half an hour to rest." Maglor nods and turns away. "No more than that," Maedhros calls after him.

Maedhros can see storm clouds gathering low on the horizon, stained blood red in the setting sun. The wind is rising, howling across the plain. It's grown unusually cold for a midsummer evening, and the men reining in their horses and dismounting are shivering. Maedhros lets his horse slow to a stop, but he stays in the saddle, staring at the darkening sky before him without really seeing it.

(That morning, Celegorm had said to him, eyes shining with hope, just before they rode out to battle, _We are always going to remember today, Nelyo_

and he'd said, _we are never going to forget any of it_)


End file.
